“No,” she said, with some vivacity; “not at all. It was very nice for a day or two. But now we seem to have got all we wanted, don’t we, Arthur? Another afternoon in the Roo, or in the Palay Royal, just to pick up a few little presents, and I should be quite content to go as soon as you please.” “You have seen very little, Nancy.” “Oh, little! I have seen the whole place, all the best shops, and the best streets. I don’t know what more there is to see.” “People will not talk about the shops and streets,” said Arthur, in his most didactic way; “but about the pictures in the Louvre, and about Notre Dame; and what music you have heard, and what plays you have seen.” “I am sure mamma will never ask me any such questions,” said Nancy, “and I don’t suppose you are going to take me to see your great friends.” “That reminds me,” said Arthur, nervously clearing his throat, “of a favour I was going to ask of you. Will you do something--that will be very disagreeable--for me, Nancy, for my sake?” She looked at him very keenly, examining his face, conscious that this seeming simple prayer meant something more than appeared. “What is it?” she said, with a gleam of suspicion in her eyes. “You will not promise then? you are cautious, Nancy. I should have pledged myself to do anything and everything for your sake.” “What is it?” she repeated. “It is so easy to say what it is at once.” “It is this then--do not reply in a hurry--I am very anxious about it, Nancy; don’t you think you might write a few lines--to my mother.” “To your mother!” the audacity of the proposal took away her breath. “Yes, I am going to write--to say what I truly feel: that I am sorry to have offended her--” “Sorry to have married me!” she cried, almost jumping out of the carriage in her vehemence. She looked at him, trembling with rage and wonder. How could he face her and ask such a thing? How could he frame the words? did he think she was going to give in, to yield now, without rhyme or reason, she who was certainly determined never to yield? “You know that is not the case,” he said; “you know that I have not repented marrying you--and never will. But, Nancy, it is not for our happiness or--well, I will say interest, though it is an ugly word--to be estranged from my mother. I want to write to her to tell her that I am grieved, hush! to have offended her. I should have known better. I should have managed so as that she might have seen you--known you, before she condemned me--” “That is that you are sorry you did not send me on approval, as the shopkeepers say--_me_! Do you suppose I would have done it? Do you think I could have endured for a moment--”